


dude, you're totally derek nightenwolf

by stilesinwonderland (itsabravenewworld)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sick Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:46:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2859533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsabravenewworld/pseuds/stilesinwonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Was Scott sick? How could he do this to me?” Stiles complains in a low voice from his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dude, you're totally derek nightenwolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MellytheHun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/gifts).



> This was for my bud Mel because she was sick and I told her I would write a sick-fic that included the quotes "please stay," "i can never unsee that" and "can we pretend i didn't just say that?" 
> 
> Title credit to captaintinymite on tumblr because she's awesome and thought of it as i bemoaned my position

 

On a stakeout, in the freezing cold, Stiles clings tightly to Scott’s side to harvest warmth and complains for the thousandth time about how he can’t feel his toes. Derek shushes them irritatedly, and Stiles sticks his tongue out. “You’ll regret being so grumpy later in your life, you know.”

 

Derek turns to scold him or something, when Scott wrinkles his nose in confusion. Derek checks the scents in the air and when he doesn’t catch anything, he glares at the boy.

 

Then Scott sneezes right into Stiles’s face where he’s sitting innocently, and they both freeze in shock. Stiles shudders, his whole face crinkling in disgust. “That was gross.”

 

“Aw, dude,” Scott says, apologetic and looking down to him. Derek rolls his eyes at how much meaning those two can put into the word “dude.”

 

“Hey, it’s all good. It’s not like you can get me sick, right?” Stiles jokes, punching at his shoulder, and they carry on with their night of traipsing through the woods and checking perimeters.

 

Stiles is wrong.

 

 

 

“Was Scott sick? How could he do this to me?” Stiles complains in a low voice from his bed. Derek pauses halfway through the window, a book on lore clutched in his hands. “I can hear you,” he accuses, voice cracking, and Derek can’t even see him in the huddle of blankets on the bed, but he knows he’s there somewhere. So he steps fully into the room and stands there in the for a few seconds.

 

“Just because werewolves can’t get sick, doesn’t mean they don’t spread disease like everyone else,” Derek answers automatically, setting the book down on the bed. “We don’t feel it because it’s nothing for our bodies to heal.”

 

He has to extend his neck to look at Stiles’s face, just barely peeking out from a fold in the blanket. Stiles looks up at him and then grimaces, like moving his eyes hurts his head. “I would turn and say hello but that means moving,” Stiles tells him quietly. His voice is groggy and he smells of stale sweat.

 

“That’s okay,” Derek tells him, his voice low because he doesn’t want to hurt Stiles’s head. “Do you know what’s wrong?”

 

“My guess is that it’s the flu.” Stiles gives an impressively painful sounding cough and sinks down further into the blankets. “I haven’t even gotten up to check my temp.”

 

Without thinking, Derek’s hand reaches out, and he feels along Stiles’s warm forehead. “You definitely have a fever.” There’s a tense moment of silence and Derek still can’t see Stiles’s face but he thinks it might mimic his own. Regardless, his hand continues its path down to Stiles’s ruddy-red cheek to feel the temperature, and for a short time he feeds some of Stiles’s pain away. He hears Stiles let out a light, shaky breath and straightens up, stretching his arm so the tingling goes away.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles slurs in satisfaction, “You did the pain thing. Do that thing more.” The low breathing increases in intensity and Stiles lets out a small snore after a few seconds. Derek, deciding to take the stairs out, is just about to shut the bedroom door when Stiles snorts back awake. Stiles lifts his head the slightest bit when he can’t see Derek and he frowns.

 

“Hey, you. Got somewhere to be?” Derek shakes his head. Stiles narrows his eyes. “Please stay, then,” he asks, head lowering back to the pillow. His eyes slip closed after that and his breathing evens out again. Derek stares, watching the way he curls up on himself and clutches the blanket just above his opened mouth, then looks around the room, not sure what to do.

 

There are tissues littering the floor around a small wastebasket that Stiles’s hadn’t picked up, so Derek scoops them up for him and takes it downstairs to empty it into the kitchen garbage can. He then searches for a good half-hour for a can of soup because Stiles probably hasn’t eaten, and then can’t find it after all that time so he returns back upstairs, sits in Stiles's computer chair, and waits for him to wake back up.

 

 

 

Stiles wakes up groggily to a semi-dark room, and an intensely dry throat. He clears his throat as he tries to blink his eyes clear, but he still feels like something is lodged right beyond his tongue and he can’t swallow it down. Wondering how long he's been out, he starts to feel around his bedspread for his phone. It doesn’t hurt his head that bad to turn around now to face his room, and seeing Derek looming over him should startle him more than it actually does.

 

Instead, Stiles blinks a few more times and looks up at him. “Hello,” he says, wincing at the way his throat stings. Vaguely, he remembers Derek sneaking in after his worried dad had left him to go to work. Then, fuzzily, a memory processes of Derek’s touch, running over the skin of his overheated cheek and then the sudden absence of pain, and Derek is still here.

 

Which is… weird. Kind of like how it’s weird that Derek is just frowning down at him instead of saying anything. Eventually though, after a staring contest (more out of exhaustion on Stiles’s part than a challenge), Derek opens his mouth. “You need food. I couldn't find your soup. What do you like?”

 

And Stiles feels like he’s taken a bad trip and he’s imagining things in his feverish haze, because usually Derek just looms for a bit and demands help with something-- it’s fair that Derek saves his life all of the time, but Derek looking for soup for _Stiles,_ because he’s sick, it’s all a bit weird. It's very possible that Derek doesn't know what actually helps sickness.

 

“I like hot pockets,” Stiles croaks, because he should probably take advantage of Derek’s sudden want to help him. Derek stalks out of the room immediately.

 

And Stiles knows there are no hot pockets in his house, because he’d eaten the last package just the other day, so it’s no surprise when his door squeaks open again and Derek, looking more pissed off than before, crosses his arms across his chest. “There are no hot pockets,” he says, and _god,_ Stiles nearly laughs so hard at the complaining lilt to his voice.

 

“That’s okay then,” Stiles says, fixing the pillow under his head and letting out a dramatic groan. “Hot pockets are the only things I can eat when ‘m sick. I don’t need anything to eat.”

 

Derek purses his lips and rolls his eyes so far back, and it’s unbearably dramatic. His eyes run over Stiles's body (and leave it to Stiles to notice even when he feels like death) appraisingly. “Taking a shower may help.”

 

“Hm?” Stiles mumbles, because his mind is fuzzy and that just sounds _suggestive._

 

“A shower. To help you feel better.” Derek’s forehead is wrinkled as he watches Stiles sprawl over on the bed and stretch his limbs with a groan of pain.

 

“Was gonna take one hours ago; couldn’t get up,” Stiles tells him. He’s kind of cold and the ache in his body is coming back because werewolf pain-feeding doesn’t last forever, so he makes himself sit up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Thanks for the advice though. I can do it," he adds when it looks like Derek is going to manhandle him into standing because his pride couldn't handle that.

 

Derek nods jerkily. Stiles sits there for a moment, stretching his sore limbs out again, and he catches sight of the book laying at the foot of the book on ghouls. He doesn't realize that Derek is gone until he returns holding a few of Stiles's towels in his hands and he sets the book down. He's curious about how Derek has found them in the first place-- he'd probably sniffed them out, he thinks with a smirk, but takes them gratefully before standing up.

 

He heads slowly towards the bathroom and catches Derek leaving his room before he can offer for him to stay. Derek's never been one for too many words. Stiles is too tired to chase after him, though, so he slugs his way towards the bathroom instead.

 

The water, after adjusting from hell-levels of hot, is perfect and using soap makes it feel like he's momentarily washing the sickness off of himself. He leans his forehead against the tiles of the bathtub and breathes in deeply. The steam clears his sinuses and he stays in that position until the water turns lukewarm as his waterheater tries to keep up.

 

He emerges from the steamy depths with fluffy hair and damp skin, but his headache feels miles better than it had before and his mind is clear rather than muddled. The house is quiet

 

"You're still here," he says when he walks into his room with his red plaid pajama pants on and a ratty t-shirt from years ago.

 

"Back," Derek clarifies, shaking the box of hot pockets at him and staring at Stiles's shirt fixedly. He’s sitting in Stiles’s computer chair

 

"But we don't have hot pockets," Stiles says, deciding to return to the warmth of his bed rather than stand anymore. He nudges Derek and Derek goes easily but not without a begrudging sound. Ignoring it, Stiles lays back against his fresh-smelling pillows and pulls his shirt back down over his stomach.

 

"I know," Derek says. "Do you like this flavor?"

 

"Yeah," Stiles answers slowly, even though it's actually his favorite. Because Derek actually went out and bought him hot pockets, which is really cool, but he doesn’t want to make Derek get a big head with all of his already-existent alpha posturing.

 

Derek takes the package back and mutters, "I'll make it for you," before closing his door quietly. Stiles can hear his footsteps padding down the stairs and he can see Derek's shoes toed off neatly in the corner of his room. It does something weird to his mind, thinking about Derek making himself comfortable in his house, so he makes himself get up and follow him down the stairs. It might be checking up on him, and Stiles knows that Derek can use a microwave successfully, but still. He wraps his dark blue blanket around his shoulders and trudges slowly after him and into the family room.

 

He walks into the kitchen to find Derek staring angrily at the microwave as the plate turns in circles. “Uh…” Stiles starts. “You okay there?”

 

Derek turns his head, eyebrows shooting up. “You should be laying down.”

 

“I get bored when I’m sick,” Stiles admits, and though it’s not the whole truth, but it’s enough for it not to be a lie. “Wanna watch TV.” The microwave goes off and Derek pulls the plate out, herding Stiles towards the couch and pushing him to sit. Stiles’s head spins a little from dizziness and he lays his head against the back of the couch with a groan.

 

“Wait!” Stiles says hastily when Derek makes to sit next to him. “I always eat my hot pockets with a fork and knife,” he tells Derek pitifully, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders and blinking up at him. Derek sighs a little bit, placing his hands on his hips and after a few seconds, he lets out a low groan and heads back to the kitchen.

 

“Controller,” Stiles says right as Derek moves to sit again and smiles gently when Derek glares at him. He throws the remote a little too hard and smiles widely when Stiles shouts in shock.

 

Derek sits on the other edge of the couch, watching the news with him. Stiles flicks the channels and sets the plate on his lap, he complains about the heat, just to see what Derek will do. “ _For the love of_ ,” Derek says, but he still gets up and turns the thermostat down. Stiles stares at him curiously. Derek hasn’t even complained once even though he’s had the excuse to, and he’s actually done everything he’s asked.

 

“So,” Stiles hedges, taking a bite of his scorching hot pocket. “Is everything okay? Am I needed for something? Imminent danger?” He’s talking with his mouth full and he can barely taste the hot pocket at all, but it feels good going down his dry throat with a sip of cold orange juice. He has weird cravings when he’s sick.

 

Derek’s shoulders tense in a shrug but his face doesn’t give anything away. “No.”

 

Stiles thinks about the book still sitting on his bed. “Okay,” he says anyways, because this is _nice,_ Derek is being nice. “Wait, is there any danger or not? I got mixed messages there.”

 

Derek says “That’s because you ask too many questions,”  with a sigh and leans into the couch. “There’s no danger. I was going to ask you to translate some things. You’re sick, so it’s okay.”

 

Stiles, feeling exhausted from all he’s managed to do while sick, scoots closer to Derek. He ignores Derek’s tense form as he leans against Derek’s shoulder, pressing his face into Derek’s bicep. “Your help is appreciated.” Derek doesn’t tell him to move so he doesn’t, and it’s interesting how far they’ve come; he can actually touch Derek now without being threatened with his life. Which isn’t quite fair, because they actually hang out all the time now. Derek spends time away from his pack to give them space to breathe, and Derek and Stiles watch movies. It’s a thing they do now.

 

The laying against him is something brand new, but he can always blame that on his sickness.

 

The guy is seriously built but it feels like a steady cushion, and it stops Stiles’s fatigue from coming back because he doesn’t have to hold himself up. He pats at Derek’s incredibly muscled arm ( _really_ though, he might marvel in it later) and flicks to the next station. Derek doesn’t seem to be having a crisis about it so Stiles forces himself not to either-- even though Derek doesn’t think about Stiles at night, think about the “what ifs” and the possibilities of _them._ But Stiles is sick enough to distract himself from that and focuses on his pounding headache.

 

After a while, Stiles tosses a bit of his blanket over Derek because it seems rude not to, and Derek’s arm goes over Stiles shoulder; then Stiles head falls to Derek’s chest instead and Derek’s thumb is rubbing over his arm in slow sweeps, steadily enough that Stiles feels like falling asleep here. But there’s nothing on TV to watch, and Stiles starts complaining about daytime TV during the weekend.  Derek glares down at him until he agrees to put Star Trek in.

 

With a huff, Derek rises with his hands on his knees and picks Stiles’s plate up. Stiles leans his head against the cushion (he hadn’t realized just how much Derek was holding him up before) and waits for him to get back, listening to the muted sound of the kitchen sink and the clattering of dishes. Derek returns, rubbing his damp hands against the fabric of his jeans, and squatting down in front of the DVD rack to search.

 

Stiles takes the opportunity to blow his nose and make a disgusting face at the tissue. “God, I’ll never un-see that,” he complains. Derek drags the basket closer and Stiles tosses it away before collapsing down onto the couch, face-first. “Guh,” he says.

 

The title menu starts playing and Stiles can hear Derek walk closer until the whole top of his body is being hefted up and onto Derek’s lap, his ear pressed against the heated skin of Derek’s thigh. “Whoa,” Stiles says as Derek starts taking his pain from the back of his neck, his fingers pressed lightly into the skin.

 

After a few minutes, Stiles blinks his eyes back open and sits back up despite Derek trying to push him down. He goes back to where he was sitting against Derek’s chest before, mumbling about how he can’t see the TV, and though Derek raises an eyebrow, he throws his arm back around Stiles’s shoulder.

 

“You’re like the best teddy bear,” Stiles says, still a little loopy from the pain-draining. Derek grumbles low in his chest and he can’t really tell if it’s with laughter or just acknowledgement and Stiles hits Derek’s thigh with his left hand resting there. “Can we forget I just said that?”

 

“If you want,” Derek says tensely, and Stiles’s mind may be making things up, but the way he says it makes it seem like he doesn’t want to forget.

 

So Stiles says “Nah,” and buries his face into Derek’s face, not even paying attention to the movie anymore because Derek is soft and the way he’s rubbing Stiles’s arm is putting him to sleep again. “You’re totally Derek Nightenwolf.”

 

“Shut up and watch the movie,” Derek orders, running his fingers through Stiles’s hair.

 

Just before he drifts off, Stiles mumbles, “Those hot pockets were my favorite.”

 

Derek snorts and says, “I know,” rubbing along the crown of Stiles’s hair and lulling him to sleep.

  


 


End file.
